


Sweet Ophelia

by TanninTele



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst and Tragedy, Codependency, Fanart, Florence Nightingale Effect, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Rest Cure, Shell Cottage, Tea, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-18 01:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14201709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: Life at the Shell Cottage is sweet and peaceful for the dying Harry and his doting husband; but Harry is slowly becoming restless, confined to bed and treated like an invalid. After a storm reveals past secrets hidden within photographs, Harry follows the footsteps of a drowned girl to find the true cause of her death.





	1. Shell Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although Harry's body was wrecking hell, Tom and his beach house were like a little slice of heaven. Harry felt that even if the world was burning around them, he’d have no inkling of the fact.

  

_**Sweet Ophelia** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **I:**  Shell Cottage

The morning was bright and almost frustratingly cheerful for Harry, who was trying very hard to sleep. “Fresh air and bed rest will do you good,” Tom had said, arrogant and all-knowing. "Some place away from the city, preferably, in order for your body to heal." 

The beach house was certainly isolate and peaceful. His husband affectionately called the hut  _'Shell Cottage',_ with it's white-washed walls and proximity to the water. The sea and sky seemed endlessly blue, with only a small smattering of clouds on the horizon. Although Harry's body was wrecking hell, Tom and his beach house were like a little slice of heaven. Harry felt that even if the world was burning around them, he’d have no inkling of the fact.

It was a better resting place than most. 

Bloodshot eyes squinting open, Harry was roused from his light nap by the tinkling of distant chimes. The window was open, a breeze ruffling the window curtain. Cool, salty air brushed against his bare skin, gooseflesh emerging in response. Harry felt the urge to burrow further in the blankets for warmth.

Instead, he sat up slowly, painfully, and rubbed the grit from his eyes. It seemed that no matter how often or how long Harry napped, he never felt well rested. Muscles straining, Harry stretched his slender arms high above his head. The bedsheets were tangled around him, entrapping him in the warm, white folds. His curly hair and olive skin made him appear like an seraphim, cradled by the clouds.

The space where his husband had slept was still warm, a note crinkling on the bedsheets. Tom, for all his faults, had terrific handwriting. Harry fondly stroked the curves of his letters, the words  _All my love_ written fastidiously in red ink. The note said that Thomas would be biking into town to visit the grocer's and apothecary. Their little ice box held only goat’s milk, brown eggs and a few slice of tuna. 

Twitching uncomfortably in bed, Harry began to feel restless, stomach heavy and twisting. If Tom was around, he’d surely push Harry back into bed and insist on making him tea to soothe his anxiety.

But Tom  _wasn’t_  around.

Harry bit his lip, the skin dry and cracked. Green eyes narrowed slyly, his bare feet slid to the floor.

This was a bad idea. The air seemed to whoosh out of him, a wave of vertigo forcing him to sit back down. Blackness threatened to creep in on his vision, but Harry clenched the bedsheets determinedly. With an unsteady wobble, Harry inched his way to the outdoor bath house.

His nightgown trailed against the sandy walkway, toes wriggling in the hot sand. The sky was a shade of blinding blue, the sun’s reflection on the ocean almost too painful to look at. Green palms waved ‘good morning!’ to him, eerily cheerful. 

Finally reaching the bath house, a closed-off area with no roof and a stone-lined shower, Harry leaned heavily against the sink. A pearly bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He splashed water in his face, sipping gratuitously at the tap. Water dripping from his eyelashes, Harry stared at the mirror and his pale, exhausted mien.

He was no longer the lively, attractive man he once was.

His body ached, and he desperately wished for a cure or miraculous elixir. 

Choosing not to dwell on it, Harry pulled open a drawer. An odd strand of hair was trapped in a bone-handled comb. The lock glinted in the sunlight, copper-colored and brittle, matching neither Harry's raven, nor Tom's brunet hair. Harry assumed it was left from whoever had owned the beach house before Thomas.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had stumbled across buried treasure; the house itself was a bit like a scavenger hunt.  In the bathroom, there were relics of a woman's presence; smears of make-up, hair in the drain, the lingering smell of perfume. The dresses in the wardrobe were all feminine, floral-patterned and ample in the bosom. The books in the library were strange and esoteric. Harry had never been a fan of mystery, nor photography, but the shelves were stocked with books of these types. 

Harry tugged the comb through his hair. It stuck up in several directions, unable to be tamed, and Harry eventually gave up. He struggled his way back, overgrown hair dripping and skin moist. A hand against the course wall, he stared out over the sea. It sparkled in the sunlight, like dancing fairy lights. It was magical, in it's own way. 

He wished that he could enjoy it. 

In the week since they’d arrived, Harry had only gotten glimpses of the ocean. Harry fell faint easily, so was bed-ridden for most of their vacation. When the urge to pee became too much to bear, Tom would carry him bridal-style to and from the bath house. It was humiliating, at first, but Tom always responded with grace and humor. 

At least, if Harry was to be confined inside, it was comfortable. 

The beach house was awfully quaint, made for honeymooning couples with only two rooms. It was painted a faded white, with splintering shutters and red terracotta roof tiles. Handmade chimes spun and dangled in the breeze, the shells and small chunks of white rock clinkling delightfully against each other. Tom had cultivated a small garden with baby tomatoes, rosemary, and other herbs meant for his teas. His bike would usually be leaning next to the front door, but with Tom's absence came a tire trail of dirt and sand leading off into the jungle of trees.

Groaning as he ascended the steps, Harry slowly took a seat by the bookshelves, leaning his head back in exhaustion. The interior was painted in shades of pastels, soft blues, peach, and white. Harry thought it had a woman's touch, something Tom and he were sorely lacking. Scalp cushioned by the cushy armchair, Harry stared up at the ceiling. He breathed shallowly, feeling another onset of lethargy. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake. 

His life was experienced in bursts of wakefulness and sleep. It was pitiful, in a way. Tom tried to keep Harry as content as possible, with reading materials, games and good conversation - but even he could see the futility of it. Harry was dying. 

They didn't know the cause, and they didn't have a cure. 

Death seemed to follow Harry wherever he went. First, at the young age of two, his parents had died in a bizarre car crash. Harry alone had survived, scarred by shards of glass, and forever haunted by the glare of oncoming headlights. He lived with his relatives, the Dursleys, until he came into an inheritance at the age of seventeen. (Briefly, Harry had considered notifying the Dursleys of his illness - but they'd more likely throw a celebration than cry at his bedside.) 

Tom and Harry had met during Harry's brief service as a law enforcer.

Tom, a decade or so older than Harry, was a doctor at Saint Mungo's. He had treated Harry for several ailments; gunshot wounds, a stabbing, and even when the entirety of his left arm had been shattered. A name plaque had been jokingly placed over Harry's usual cot, seeing as he ended up under the white sheets often enough. There had always been a spark of  _something_ underneath Tom's impeccable bedside manner and charming smirk. Tom was eerily attentive to Harry's needs, cool under pressure and clearly possessive of the trouble-making younger man. Harry, too, was smitten.

However, he had worried that their attraction was something of the Florence Nightingale Effect, and that Tom's reciprocation would eventually fade. They had danced around their attraction for months before Tom finally asked him to dinner. 

It was whirlwind, it was wonderful - 

\- and, then, on New Year's Eve, Tom proposed. 

Harry twisted his dark tanzanite ring, fitting snugly on his ring finger; the _vena amoris._  According to old lore, a vein in this finger led straight to his heart. The ring itself was an old family heirloom, carved with a strangely beautiful symbol that Tom said represented  _'Until death do us part.'_

If only they knew how literal that would be. 

Neither Tom nor Harry had anyone to give them away, and no priest would sanction their marriage, except for old, dotty Reverend Dumbledore. To most, homosexuality was frowned upon, believed to be unnatural and ungodly. (Tom didn't believe in a god, regardless; he thought, quite astutely, that man was the closest thing to God in this universe.)

Reverend Dumbledore had liked to preach on the streets, wearing nothing but a long white robe, his beard long and tangled. Rumor had it, he was expelled from the monastery for consorting with an altar boy. Tom hadn't liked the strange man in their home, and so they had quickly exchanged rings and vows, signed a few papers, and kicked him out.

To make up for the rushed ceremony, they ended the night with a very _thorough_ consummation. 

All was well . . . until it wasn't. 

Pressure grew behind his eyes.

The screeching of bike tires outside forced Harry to hurriedly wipe his cheeks. Crawling back into the large bed, he could hear Tom grunting inelegantly outside, hefting a basket full of medicines and food into the beach house. Harry pressed his head into the pillow and pinched his eyes shut, hoping Tom wouldn't notice the sticky tear tracks. 

Tom's footfalls were soft as he moved about the kitchen, trim figure facing away from the bed. His shoes were off, and his pale shirt stained with sweat. Pale hands quickly distributed the fresh bottles of milk into the ice box, before turning on the stove and preparing a fresh pot of tea. 

Wafts of chamomile and honey met Harry's nose. The pot boiled, and Tom deftly poured out two cups of tea. The cups were porcelain and decorated with lily petals and ivy leaves. 

Tom silently added a few drops of medication to Harry's cup, which Harry knew would leave a slightly bitter taste. Once fresh bread and marmalade had been added to the tray, the man padded across the floor. He paused slightly, seeing the dishevelled bedsheets, the discarded note and the sprinkles of sand across the floor. 

He sighed.  _"Harry."_

Harry knew from the tone that Tom wasn't truly upset with him. Frustrated, perhaps, and disappointed, but nonetheless fond. He giggled slightly into the pillow. "'lo, Tommy." 

Placing the tray on Harry's table, Tom ran his fingers through Harry's damp, combed hair. "I hope you didn't strain yourself, silly boy. Sit up, love, no need to pretend." 

Harry pulled himself back up, smiling lazily at his husband. Tom was frowning, observing the glint of tears on Harry's cheek. He sat on the edge of Harry's bed, leaning into Harry's thighs. He reached for a knife and the bread, smearing the sweet-smelling jam. "Hungry? Missus Flume made you her special marmalade mixture from their lemon tree." Harry smiled again, allowing himself to be hand-fed, biting playfully on Tom's fingers. 

"The bread is from Dobby's Bakery, made  _without_ raisins. I know how you hate them. Sir Snape, too, sends his regards. During my visit, he smelt distinctly of cannabis - I believe he likes to 'test the quality' of his preserves on rainy days." 

Harry swallowed another bite of bread, crumbs falling to the sheets. "How's his hair?" 

"Oh, horrific," Tom laughed. "It resembles an oil spill. But, to be fair, yours is worse whenever you attempt to gel it." He ran an affectionate hand through Harry's curls. The boy shook him off, coughing out laughter. "Thirsty?" 

Harry took the initiative, tremulous fingers attempting to grasp the tea cup. The porcelain rattled and nearly spilled over the hardwood. Tom steadied his hands, running the pad of his finger over Harry's ring. "There you are, sweet boy. Drink it all." Tom watched Harry's sips closely, blue eyes dark and piercing. 

As he drank, the breeze rustling the windchimes, Harry thought of Hogsmeade. 

From Thomas' stories, Missus Plume was a lovely, sweet-talking woman that managed a small grocery. Her husband had died only a few years prior, leaving Missus Plume to raise and homeschool two young girls. Her daughters, Hestia and Flora, attended a school several miles away. Missus Plume owned the only automobile in town, able to transport them too and from the school twice a day.

The baker, Mister Dobby, was a short old man with a toothy grin, dexterous hands, and a shirt stained with flour. He told stories of serving in the war, exaggerated, macabre tales with odd twists that made Tom wonder if the old man was delusional. Last was Sir Severus Snape, an apothecarian with a surly attitude and a beaked nose. He was well-read and intrigued with the medicinal properties of various plants, especially cannabis. 

Harry handed the cup back to Tom. "I'd like to visit the town sometime. While I'm still able." 

Tom's gaze flickered, and he carefully shifted on the bed. "You know how I hate to deny you, love," he began, laying a hand on Harry's thigh. "However, when you snuck out of bed this morning - don't deny it, you're not as sly as you'd like to believe - how long did it take before you became exhausted?" 

Harry bit his lip, green eyes sheepish. "Not very." 

"Like I thought." He leaned forward, patting Harry's lips with a folded napkin. "Please forgive me if I think a trip into town would be detrimental, rather than cathartic." Their eyes met, green against blue.

Harry caught his hand, pressing warm, pianist fingers to his chapped lips. "I'm not upset," he murmured, resigned. "I love you, Tom." 

The older man seemed to melt, bringing Harry's head to his heart.  _"Oh,"_ he breathed. "And I, you, my dear. Never doubt that. Now. How about some music?" 

* * *

  ** _April 16th, 1979_**

_Dear Diary,_

_It's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. I can't believe they've put me on suspension - I'm the best damn football player they've got, and a little ankle break isn't going to change that! I've been going to the hospital for weeks now for physical therapy. My doctor is a codgery old man with a crooked nose, but his assistant is - well, let's say he's the only silver lining. I think he likes me. We've been flirting for a while, but I'm unsure how much of that is bedside manner or actual attraction. He's tall and incredibly clever, with a smile that makes me want to swoon._

_My next appointment is in a week, and soon the cast will be off. Would it be horrible if I asked him out for coffee?_

_Love, Ginny._

* * *

  ** _June 3rd, 1979_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I think I'm in love. Really, truly. Mum thinks I'm in over my head, that I'm too young to recognize love - but she married dad just out of school, and Bill married a_ Frenchwoman -  _as if they have any right calling me a slut! I'm eighteen now, and I can make my own damn decisions, I think. He's just so_ mature  _and_ sweet,  _so unlike_ _like my brothers, who sabotaged my last few flings._

_Marvolo's invited me to spend the summer with him. We've only been dating for two months, really, but he rented a house on the beach, with a dock for fishing and a huge yard to play football. He says I can spend the days sunbathing and reading my poetry, visiting the town or taking pictures._

_And - of course - two young lovers all alone together are bound to get up to_ some _mischief._

_I can't wait._

_Love, Ginny._  

* * *

This lovely sketch of the beach house is courtesy of the incredible [quokk-a](http://quokk-a.tumblr.com/). 


	2. Tamed Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the law of nature. Sometimes, beautiful things had to die for others to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A bit of fluff before shit goes down.)

_**Sweet Ophelia** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**II:** Tamed Beast

The two had been lackadaisical the rest of the evening, lying side-by-side in the bed, heads pressed together. Tom read aloud from a fairytale book, holding it reverently in his hands. The well-loved pages were dog-eared, open to a page somewhere in the middle. Tom read softly, voice barely above a whisper, although the breeze carried it just fine.

Soft music played from Tom's gramophone, it's bronze amplifier glinting in the moonlight. They couldn't fit a piano in the small home, but Tom had brought his favorite records. Piano keys trinkled on, supplying a haunting soundtrack for Tom's tale.

"The young girl was a curious creature, and so - despite the Beast's warnings - wandered off to find the forbidden wing. His bed chambers were damaged and dark, the once-opulent decorations torn from the walls. The only light came from a crystal dome, holding within it a beautiful, glowing red rose." Harry shifted closer to Tom, leeching off his warmth, and stared at the book's illustration. No one had ever read fairy-tales to Harry as a child. At night, Harry would have to strain his ears to hear Petunia reading to Dudley at night, spinning stories of extravagant journeys and exotic, fantastic worlds Harry could only dream of.

"It's petals had begun to fall, one by one, fluttering gently through the air before landing. Just as the girl was about to touch it, the Beast arrived, furious. Torn between fear and bewilderment, the girl ran as fast as she could, into the cold winter night. She quickly became lost, enveloped by the barren trees and blinded by the billowing snowfall. A pack of starving wolves scented her out, yipping at her heels. She screamed for help, her voice muffled by the blizzard. Just as she believed all was lost, the Beast came tearing through the forest. He was magnificent in his ferocity. After a brief battle, the wolves submitted, relinquishing their prey to the superior beast. The Beast, however, was injured. And the young girl had to decide, between self-preservation, or empathy for the creature that saved her life."

Harry placed his chin on Tom's shoulder. "What would you chose?" he asked quietly. "To stay, or to flee?"

Tom paused, blue eyes contemplative. He placed a manicured finger on the page, saving his place. "There was nothing else left for her in the town. She and her father would be hailed as mad and thrown into an Asylum; with the Beast, she would similarly be trapped. In a gilded cage, suppose, but a cage nonetheless."

"That's not an answer," Harry pressed, insistent.

Blue eyes stared down in amusement. "It doesn't matter, does it? I'm more like the Beast, anyways."

"Furry, bitter and afraid of a flower?"

Tom pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead. "Just looking for someone to love him."

Softening, Harry pawed for Tom's hand, clutching it to his chest. He closed his eyes, settling to sleep. "Keep reading."

Chuckling, Tom obliged. As he always did for his boy.

"The beautiful girl brought the Beast back to the castle and bandaged his wounds. As he healed, the Beast slowly opened up to her, like the petals of a flower revealing it's inner beauty. She read to him from her favorite books, and told him about her father, the clumsy inventor. In turn, the Beast told her about his mother, a beautiful woman who fell ill when he was but a babe," Tom's lips played into a frown. Harry stared at him with faint pity and understanding. "When the Beast's mother died, he grew dark and bitter, a cruel heart masked by a beautiful face. After the witch's spell, the flesh finally matched the ugliness within. And only one thing could cure his bitter heart."

"True love," Harry said.

Tom agreed. "True love. The sort of love that every man aspires for, but few achieve. The princess's love changed him from a horrid beast into a charming prince, and together, they lived happily ever after." He closed the book, and the two merely lay beside each other, content in each other's breathing. Harry played with the buttons on Tom's shirts. His chest rose up and down rhythmically, calming Harry.

Harry glanced shyly at him, green eyes blown. "Tom? Will you bring me to the beach tomorrow?"

The man rose a brow.

Harry pressed close, begging. "I've been feeling much better lately, and it's only a short trip down to the shore."

Tom licked his lips, contemplating. He seemed more willing to indulge his husband, staring down into those earnest green eyes. He pressed a quick kiss to Harry's top lip. "We shall try."

Harry beamed beauticiously.

The gramophone clicked, stuttering, before another song began.

Tom sat up slowly, smiling at the sound of  _Claire de Lune_ _._ "Can you stand, my love?" he whispered, walking around the bed and extending a hand. Harry tentatively took it, green eyes wary. He yelped as he was pulled into a tight embrace, bare feet shuffling against the floor.

"I feel like the princess in your story," Harry laughed, placing his head on Tom's chest as they gently swayed. Harry was breathless, but enjoying their dance it all the same. Tom led him around in a gentle sway. He resisted spinning the smaller boy, instead dipping him lightly. Harry bared his throat, a pale column of unblemished skin.

Tom settled his teeth threateningly on Harry's Adam's apple, applying only the slightest bit of pressure. In the moonlight, Tom's cheekbones were sharp, harsh, and his blue eyes fathomless. Harry let out the tiniest of gasps, eyes fluttering shut. Tom laved the red marks quickly, soothing the wound.

"If that's so . . . then I am the Beast, tamed."

* * *

**_July 15th, 1979_ **

_With Marvolo's help, I made a wind chime today. He found me shells from the beach and I strung them together. He tells me my art is beautiful, almost as beautiful as me._   _Later,_ _I biked into town and met a young man named Severus. He was shy, at first, a soldier recently returning home from a war. He told me I looked like his childhood friend, and wanted to pet my hair. I refused, and hurried towards the grocers. Mister and Missus Flume were far kinder, and their two baby girls are sweet as can be._

 _I_   _asked Tom about having children someday, and he gave me the strangest look. Aren't boyfriends and girlfriends supposed to talk about these things?_ _I shouted at him for a bit . . . though I might have been overreacting._

_Marvolo loves me. I know he does. His presence is simply so strong, so stifling, that I wonder if he wouldn't be better off with someone less headstrong. He likes the quiet, and I readily admit that loudness runs in my family._

* * *

**_July 16th, 1979_ **

_I tried to cook something nice for Marvolo to make up for yesterday, but I must've blacked out from the heat._

_My head ached when I woke, and there was blood across my dress. My hands are all sliced up from the kitchen knife. I can't hold the handles of my bike anymore._

_While Marvolo fished, I spent the day on the veranda, watching him. He's terrible at it, so it at least provided some amusement._

_I think the snakes are eating the sandpipers. There are feathers and strange marks in the sand. I_   _asked him about it, and Marvolo told me that it was the law of nature. "_ _Sometimes, beautiful things have to die for others to live," he told me._

_He's so odd sometimes._


	3. The Daymare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His imagination was a cruel thing - Tom would never hurt him, no, the man had saved his life.

_**Sweet Ophelia** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**III** **:** The Daymare

In a tacit sort of silence, Tom got Harry out of bed and dressed him in a loose shirt and shorts. Tom's hands lingered on Harry's hips, moving him around slowly in a facsimile of their dance last night. "My beautiful boy," he kissed him. "Are you ready to go, now?"

Lips lingering on Tom's, Harry nodded frantically. Laughing, Tom pulled away to pull on a pair of frayed pants.

"Will you go fishing today?" Harry asked. Tom nodded, running a hand through brown, wavy locks. He began to make tea for them, steeping a tea bag into the boiling water. Harry's nose flared at the sharp, herbal scent. "What sort of fish swim this close to the shore?"

"Oh, lots," Tom said. "Trouts, mullets, anchovy. Don't be startled if you see a few crustacean, as well."

After elevenses, Tom carefully placed an arm around Harry's waist, helping him hobble into the yard. The sand was warm and soft today, with little shards of rock pressing into the soles of their shoes. Harry's dark ringlets fluttered in the wind, his feverish skin instantly cooled. 

Moving slow, Tom escorted Harry down to the shore, the slight man relying heavily on his husband for balance. It was an arduous process and Tom's knowing gaze when Harry nearly collapsed after a few paces was humiliating - but the view was worth it. 

The waters are tantalizingly deep; waves rampant and loud, the water was a mixture of blues that even Picasso would have difficulty capturing. The shore was garnished in palm trees, trailing their long green fingers through the air. Tom told Harry that he'd found a nest of sandpipers underneath the long, weather-worn dock. Harry could see a little brown piper now, flitting back and forth on the shore, chasing the waves.

The sickly boy sat tentatively in the sand, shaded by a swaying palm tree, legs curled beneath him. He placed his hand into the water, revelling at the tide rolling between his fingers. Tom watched him for a moment before gliding back into the house. Harry's dark ringlets fluttered in the wind, his feverish skin cooled

Harry watched the ocean serenely, listening with half an ear to the sounds of Tom collecting his fishing gear. In his hands was a long, metal rod, grey bucket bouncing at his side as he glided over to the dock. The man was a trim silhouette in the distance, strong arms rearing back to sharply cast the line.

The green-eyed boy grinned at his husband; fishing was a challenge to Tom, who relied so heavily on being in control of any and all situations.

Everything else came easily to Tom, whether it be courting Harry with his suave looks and charm, or graduating top of the class at med school. Tom seemed adamant on becoming a good fisher, for it meant defying the odds and providing for his family. Harry was both amused and concerned by this.

Tom ached for control, and Harry's illness was out of both of theirs.

Laying on his back, Harry watched the sun peak though the leaves of the palm tree. Listening to the sound of waves crashing and sandpipers scuttling, Harry drifted off into a restless sleep.

* * *

_Harry stared out over the horizon._

_He was standing on the edge of a cliff, moonfall casting eerie shadows over the chasm. The weather was turning terrible, and the dark waves lapped beneath the overhang. In the dim light, the water looked like blood. Harry_ _moved until he his toes were millimeters from the edge, body leaning forward ever-so slightly. Excitement thrummed through his body, nerves tingling. Harry stared hard into the murky depths, the wind rushing around him, blurring his vision. He wasn't suicidal, but the realization that one misstep could cause him plummeting to oblivion was damned exhilarating._

_Something fluttered within his line of vision. He released a sharp breath, cold air rushing into his lungs, as it whipped by again._

_It was a chunk of red hair, dirty and tattered, caught on a branch. The sight sent a rush of terror through him._ _He whispered to the sea. "I want to go home, Tom."_

_Harry felt a presence behind him._

_"Why for, my dear? Don't you like it here?" Tom's voice was smooth, like chocolate or poison, sweet at the edges but bitter when swallowed._

_"I keep seeing things in the water. Reflections. Flashes of color."_

_Tom seemed amused. "Fish, perhaps. They have such beautiful scales here. I'll catch one for you, we can make a soup - "_

_"No! No. I'm not hungry."_

_A hand reached around the press into Harry's belly, gentle, but subtly domineering. "Ah. How is your stomach? Do you need to lie down - "_

_"My stomach is fine, Tom." Harry said. He reached to pull Tom's hand away, but touched only bone. Tom's hand was pale and scaly, the fingernails filed into sharp points. They dug into his stomach, dark blood spilling from the wounds. Harry gasped, swinging around._

_The beast before him gave him an eerie, inhuman smile. He was serpentine, wavy hair replaced by scales, blue eyes slitted. "You've been so good to me, love. Such a sweet boy."_

_He made a choked noise. "I don't - "_

_"You'd let me take care of you forever, wouldn't you? Under my care, you'd wither away - your skin going that pretty shade of white, green eyes fixated on me, as though I was your_ God."  _Tom's eyes glowed red, two burning embers. "I would love you forever, devour your heart, dangle your bones from my chimes, so your voice would whisper to me in the wind." Tom tipped his head, staring down into the ocean. "I've loved many before you, sweet Harry, but I think I'll love you the most._ Always."

 _Panic flared through him at that final, resounding word. "Tom -_  Tom!"

_Harry was shoved violently over the edge of the cliff. His blood-curdling screams were cut short as he slammed into the inky waters._

_Panic flooded through his body, even as frigid water surrounded it. He was submerged, his ears popping, lungs suffusing with water. He tried to swim, but the violently lapping waves dragged him up and down, giving him little time to gasp for air. An awareness of acute peril swept through him._ _The waves were strong enough to snap his neck, and he was amazed it hadn't already. A large wave enveloped him, shoving his body backward. Slamming into the cliffside, Harry felt the wounds on his stomach tear open. The dull pain only worsened his predicament._

_Gasping for breath one last time, Harry went under. Water rushed in his ears, his rapid heartbeat echoing. The boy couldn't see a thing. And he could only hold his breath for so long._

_Harry closed his eyes, feeling himself drift. This was it._ _He was drowning. He was dying._

_The boy jerked when something wrapped around his wrist._

_His body was jolted forward toward some unseen identity. The only thing visible was the whites of their eyes, milky and dead. Harry screamed, bubbles expelling from the corners of his mouth, and he yanked away to no avail. White strips of tattered cloth, from her dress, wound around him like tentacles, trapping him in place, forcing him deeper, and deeper, into Hell._

_The girl, hair a blazing red, smiled._

_As he died._

* * *

Harry woke gagging. His chest heaved, lungs gasping for air, as he spat out sea water. A foreign hand slapped his back, helping him expel the last of it.

"My God, Harry," Tom pressed Harry's sopping wet head into his chest. Tom was dishevelled, as though he had ran to him, fishing rod abandoned at the dock. "You . . . you could've died."

Just another thing out of his control, Harry thought hysterically.

Harry panted against his husband, burning eyes staring at Tom's normal, non-monstrous hands. "I'm fine," he breathed. "I'm fine. What happened?"

"The tide - the tide enveloped you. I saw the wave coming and I tried to warn you, but I was too far away - you wouldn't wake up." Tom's lips trembled faintly, and Harry felt a deep, horrible sense of guilt. His imagination was a cruel thing - Tom would never hurt him,  _no,_ the man had saved his  _life_.

Not that it was much of a life, anymore.

"I should  _never_ have let you come down here," Tom hissed to himself. Harry shivered violently. He was soaked to the bone, chilled, and sore. The breeze was frigid, storm clouds brewing on the horizon. "Let's get you inside," Tom helped the trembling boy to stand. "We'll take a shower, and I'll warm you up. Does that sound nice?"

Harry made an idle sound of agreement, allowing himself to be walked to the bathhouse. He stared out over the waves, placid now, twinkling tauntingly in the sunlight.

His gaze lowered to a moss-covered rock, seafoam and seaweed clustered around it. The tide pulled back, revealing a round, bulbous human skull, trapped in the tentacles of a weed. Harry startled violently, but by the time he went to take a second look, the tide had already rushed over it.

A hallucination? That, or something worse.

He swallowed harshly and leaned minutely away from Tom. This movement was watched intently by too-dark eyes, and the chimes whispered sorrowfully on the porch.

Entering the bathhouse, they waited on the tile for several long minutes, allowing steam to fill the air, saying not a word.

Tucking his fingers beneath the hem of Harry's shirt, Tom helped peel the clothing from his back. Harry purposefully looked anywhere but the fogged mirror. Stepping into the scalding water, he stared down at his prominent rib cage and marvelled at how different everything looked. The sharp and skeletal edges of his body appeared paler, his skin nearly blue. Already, he resembled a corpse.

The warm streams of water and Tom's steady hands gentled him, allowing Harry to forget his delusions for a brief period. Tom was tender with him, cleaning the seaweed from Harry's matted curls. The smell of brine was replaced with lavender. Tom's expression was blurred and indistinguishable, allowing Harry's imagination to fill in the blanks. He clenched Tom's hands warningly, removing them from his waist. Reaching behind him with a trembling hand, Harry turned off the hot water. A stray droplet hit him in the nose, dribbling down his lips. He licked it away, closing his eyes

"Could you . . . can you take back to bed?" he tried to sound normal, but miserably failing. He wanted to ask about the skull, but he knew how Tom would react. With bewilderment and concern, making a low comment about Harry's illness manifesting in macabre delusions and daydreams. 

Tom's naked limbs twitched with the urge to bracket Harry against the wall, safe in his arm. The man valiantly resisted, seeming to sense Harry's need for distance. "Of course," he said smoothly, long arm stretching over Harry to grab a towel.

The two towelled off, Tom keeping a respectable distance as Harry struggled into the house. Still naked, Harry crawled into bed, nestling into the sheets as if to hide his face. Tom disappeared outside and returned with a bucket full of little fish. He seemed to have caught quite a few, the smell pungent and salty.

"Will you . . . go into town for a bit?" Harry whispered to his husband, voice feeble. "Just a while. So I can rest."

Tom looked at his husband, eyes fathomless. "Do you want me to?" Harry just pressed his face into the pillows. Tom violently gutted the fish, knife  _chink-_ ing wetly. "I suppose I could fetch a few things from town. I'll be using the last of the milk for this soup. Do you want anything? Books? Paper? Sweets, perhaps?" he said cloyingly. There was no response, not even a muffled grunt. "Nothing?" Tom sighed at Harry's reticence, wiping his hands on a hand towel.

His feet padded against the floor, and the bed springs depressed as Tom crawled across the bed. He placed a hand on Harry's back, feeling the gooseflesh rise. Tom crooned softly, tracing Harry's protruding spine with a possessive, gentling touch. "Oh, Harry," he pressed a heated kiss to the small of his back. "My sweet boy. Come to me. Don't push me away, love."

Harry's entire body shuddered as he sobbed. Tom enveloped him fully, placing Harry's face to his collarbone and whispering sweet nothings into the boy's ears.

"I just - " Harry hiccupped, cheeks damp. "I want to go home, Tom."

"My sweet, sweet boy," his voice was sibilant, a soft susurrus. "I'm home, aren't I? And I'll always be here for you, to take care of you."

Green eyes blinked up at him. "A . . . Always?"

_"Always."_

The oath felt more like a threat.

* * *

Later, Harry ate his soup, hardly tasting a thing. It was only when he heard the squeaking of bike wheels, pulling away from the beach house, that Harry finally felt safe enough to sleep.

The day passed at an alarming rate; by the time he awoke again, it was late afternoon, and the sky was grey. He was all alone.

The wind was cold, the windows rattling in their frames. Harry hobbled to his feet, shutting the window with a frown. The windchimes, visible through the glass, were rattling dangerously; the storm was a music all on it's own, a cacophony of roaring waves and the rustle of trees. Harry flinched as the door flew open, cracking against the wall. The blanket around his shoulders was blown about, papers rustling, the walls practically vibrating. He hurried to shut the door, bracing himself against the wood. He screamed out at the sea, body groaning with rapturous, horrible pain.

The sea screamed back.

With a pained grunt, he slammed the door closed. Breathing labored, Harry had to sit down. Fingers scrambling, he pulled the blanket further around his body. The sea's song was finally muffled. Green eyes tracked a faint puddle of water, dripping from a crack in the ceiling. He swore tightly, crawling on his hands and knees to the kitchen cabinets, where he removed a number of silver pots.

One by one, he followed the leaks, the metallic  _ting_ of drops hitting metal slowly grating on his nerves. Finally, Harry settled at the base of his bed, grunting. He was drained and cold. Tom had left out pajamas for him, and the boy pulled them over his sore body. Harry laid his head between his knees.

Tom had left to visit the town  _hours_ ago; he ought to have been back by now.

The storm clouds rumbled, and so did the beach house. It's unsteady foundations seemed less quaint and more life threatening now. The tea-cups Tom set out beside the sink fell to the ground, porcelain shattering. Another rattle, and the bookshelf  _creaked;_  Harry shrieked, covering his head as books rained down. The pages fluttered and folded, hitting the ground with a clatter.

A book on photography slid across the floor, coming to rest at his feet. Nerves aflame, Harry reached carefully for it.

The corner of a manilla folder stuck out from between the pages. It was a little folder of polaroids; glinting waves and nesting pipers, orange crabs and a fish, caught on a hook. Harry felt himself still, tracing the last picture idly. Something about the picture, taken by some unseen photographer, set him on edge.

It was of a boyishly attractive girl, fast asleep on the beach, red hair splayed around her head like a halo. A white sun dress draped enticingly over two toned, freckled leg. Her hand was in her lap, holding a small black book - a diary. In gold, the cover was embossed with her name,  _Ginevra M. Weasley._  A ring, dark in color, gleamed on her ring finger.

Bringing the pictures close to his chest, heart thumping rapidly, the storm raged on.

As did his thoughts.

* * *

**_July 23rd, 1979_ **

_Marvolo brushed my hair today. He insisted on it, telling me it was matted and unbefitting of a lady. He's always trying to tell me what to do and how to act, like I'm his doll. I tried to push him away, but he yanked, and a chuck of hair was ripped out of my scalp._

_I let him ice the wound; it's easier to just let him do what he wants than fight about it. We fight too much as it is._

_I can't wait for this damn vacation to be over._

* * *

**_August 1st, 1979_ **

_I haven't been sleeping well lately. Marvolo doesn't say anything, but I know I wake him up with my night terrors._

_He just pulls me closer, arms like a cage around me, and promises to make me tea in the morning like my mother used to. What he doesn't realize is that my dreams are of_ him _. I have nightmares where he's chasing me through an endless maze of dirt pipes, but no matter how fast I run, he is always one step behind me. A sick game of 'tag, you're it!'_

_I wonder what will happen when I'm caught._


	4. Calm Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, the windchimes did not chime to fill the nighttime quiet. The white shells and rocks had shattered, looking like shards of bone on the veranda.

_**Sweet Ophelia** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**_I_** ** _V_ ** _**:** _ _Calm Before_

When Tom returned, looking harried but no worse for wear, Harry tossed his arms around him. Tom stared through the door frame at the damage, blue eyes wide. The house was a wreck. Furniture and books were strewn about the floor, the roof full of leaks, more than the pots could hold. The yard was far worse, grass and trees torn from the root, his garden of herbs utterly decimated. His windchimes had shattered on the porch, white shards cutting into their feet.

"Where were you?" Harry mumbled into Tom's shirt, distracting him.

Tom's embrace was tight and unrelenting. "I was in town, like you asked. The storm was horrid - one of the worst in years, Missus Flume told me. Were you hurt?"

Harry's eyes were rimmed with dark smudges, skin pale and clammy. "You stayed with her?"

"Well, I couldn't stay with Sir Snape, now could I? No, Snape and 'accommodating' are certainly not synonymous," he said, stepping into the beach home. "And Mister Dobby irks me. He talks far too much. Did you shut all the windows and doors?" Tom nudged the bookshelf with his toe, frowning in intense dissatisfaction.

"I tried," Harry said weakly. His slim figure leaned against the doorframe, quite pale. He felt a bit abandoned. Tom began to pick up fallen books, grimacing at the puddles of water. "They kept blowing open."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Tom said quietly. "I should've seen the storm coming, and after the state you were in - "

Walking tentatively, Harry placed his arms around Tom's waist. "You couldn't have known," he tried to soothe. "It wasn't in your control."

That's what broke Tom's cool, carefully maintained exterior. Turning quickly, he dragged Harry towards him, placing fierce kisses on his face. He bit and gnawed at Harry's dry lips, earning a pained gasp from his husband. Tom pulled back, holding Harry's cheeks with a clawed grip. His eyes were dark, endless.

"Lay down," he whispered. "Go back into bed; your recovery has been disrupted, I can tell. The storm startled you. Will you rest peacefully, knowing I am near?"

"I don't  _want_  to sleep - "

Tom ignored his objections, pushing Harry almost painfully back into bed.  _"Stay,"_ he commanded, as if Harry was nothing but a  _dog._ Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Tom swept from the beach house to clean the yard.

Harry pursed his lips, frail fingers tightening into a fist. Dismissed, set away on a high shelf like a porcelain doll, carefully put aside and expected to sit pretty. In the past, he would've been grateful for the reprieve, glad to have the weight of responsibility taken from his shoulders.

 _Now,_  Harry felt more like a puppet cut from it's strings, with no other purpose but to amuse.

* * *

Harry watched with quiet contemplation as Tom prepared tea, using a cracked cup.

On Harry's lap was the packet of pictures, kept safe in his hands, like a closely-guarded secret. Eyes heavily lidded, he stared at the vial of medication as it was dripped into Harry's cup. He wondered.

"What is bothering you, my love?" Tom sat across from him, sipping idly from his steaming cup. Releasing the pictures, Harry wrapped trembling hands around the warm porcelain.

"It's nothing," he said unconvincingly.

"Have I been neglecting you?" Tom asked worriedly. By himself, he had cleaned up the storm's damage, the floors freshly swept and the books placed carefully back into their shelves. "We can spend the evening reading, if it would please you."

To keep from answering, Harry brought the tea to his lips. The bitter scent of medication met his nose, and he hesitated. Setting down the cup, he only pretended to swallow, pale throat bobbing. "Speaking of books," he murmured. "I found these inside a book on photography." Harry splayed the polaroids onto the tabletop, watching Tom carefully for a reaction.

The man stared down at the pictures with a scarily blank expression. Tom sipped at his tea, tipping his head in feigned confusion. "You didn't take these? They're rather good."

"No. They're hers," he tapped the image of the girl. "She . . . I feel like I've dreamt of her." Harry winced, remembering dead features and floating red hair. "Her name is Ginevra, see, it says so, on her diary. She lived here, before, I think."

"Hm. I wouldn't know." Tom took the pictures, holding them gently in his large hands.

"Then what  _do_ you know? I've found her hair in the sink drain, her clothes in the closet, her books in those shelves - "

A puff of exasperated air left Tom's lips. "Harry, you don't _want_ to know," he said gravely.

"I  _do,_ Tom, I  _do."_ Harry pushed, green eyes unrelenting. "What is it?"

Tom placed a gentle hand on Harry's. "I didn't want to tell you . . . but the realtor did mention a young girl, a few years ago, who died tragically here. Drowned. Her body was never found."

A gasp escaped his lips. "Drowned. Here?"

With a flash of fear, Harry recalled the human skull. He remembered it, the bright white roundness cradled by sea water and algae. Harry knew he was unwell, but besides a bone-deep exhaustion and the occasional day-mare, he wasn't  _that_ kind of sick. It hadn't been a hallucination. "How?"

Tom shrugged idly, dark eyes lowered. He traced the girl's long, tan legs, with a strange gleam to his eyes. "Carelessness, probably," he murmured. "A silly girl who refused to heed others' warnings. The ocean can be very dangerous," he said lowly. "You know that better than most, what with your most recent brush with death. You're lucky I was there to save you."

Harry shuddered with visceral memory of the ocean's cold grasp and water in his lungs. "I am. But, Tom - look at her ring. It . . . looks just like mine."

"Nonsense." Tom barely glanced at them, sliding the pictures into his own pocket, standing tall. "Are you done asking questions, now?" Tom asked, voice like velvet-draped steel. "Your curiosity abated?" 

Harry nodded reluctantly, dark curls bouncing.

"Good." Tom smiled tightly. "Finish your tea, love. You wouldn't want it to get cold."

* * *

_**August 10th, 1979** _

_I must sound paranoid and hysterical, but I think he's putting something in my tea. A sort of powder - I'm afraid to ask. He's a doctor, though. Medicine? Sleep aids?_ _. . . Poison? I feel so sore and damn_ tired _all the time, but I can't sleep with these dreams . . ._

* * *

**_August 15th, 1979_ **

_Please. Please. I'm scared. He never lets me outside anymore, won't let me visit town or call my family. I can't even visit the beach. He says I'm sick, and maybe I am, but I think he's the sick one -_

* * *

Tom burnt the pictures.

Harry was quite certain of it, scenting smoke on the man's skin as he climbed into bed. Tom slung an arm around his husband, burrowing his long, elegant nose closer to Harry's throat. He breathed in deeply, as if committing Harry's sickly-sweet smell to memory. The thought left a horrid taste in his mouth.

"I'm dying, Tom," Harry spoke abruptly into the darkness, bloodshot eyes raised to the ceiling.

Tom's startled silence spoke volumes.

For once, the windchimes did not ring  to fill the nighttime quiet. The white shells and rocks had shattered, looking like shards of bone on the veranda. Tom mourned the loss, but promised Harry they'd make a new one.

"I can feel it - the burning of my lungs with every breath I take, the inbalance to my steps, the erratic thump of my heart. I'm tired, all the time, but I know that sleep won't ease the pain. Day after day, I'm confined to this bed, useless as a sack of bones. When I fell asleep on the beach, it was the closest I've ever gotten to  _peace."_  Salty tears dripped. _I almost wish you had let me drown,_ is what he didn't say, knowing it would hurt Tom the most.  _I'm dying, and my husband is lying to me._

"What is this illness?" Harry asked, voice tapering to a desperate whisper. "What did I do to deserve this torture?"

"Nothing, my love, absolutely nothing - " Tom's hands ran carefully, possessively, over Harry's cheeks. "You did nothing. You were perfect - you  _are_ perfect. I've taken good care of you, haven't I? Made sure your every need is met, providing you this beautiful home - "  _to spend your last days._

Harry struggled to sit up, gently extracting himself from Tom.

"I have to go," he said hurriedly, almost hysterically, feeling his body thrum from head to toe. "I have to find it." His feet slid to the floor, scrambling for purchase in the dark.

"Find what?"

"Find  _her._ I saw her. I saw her skull in the water."  _Her body was never found._ "You never meant for her to be found, did you?"

Tom made a noise of protestation, but Harry moved quickly, pale, rail-rod thin figure disappearing out the front door. "Harry - Harry what do you  _mean?"_

Outside, green eyes scanned the beach, starlight guiding his path. The sand was soft beneath him as he weakly stumbled down to the shore. The waves rustled and gleamed, tickling his toes, chilling him to the bone. "Harry!" Tom shouted from the house. "Harry, come back!"

Harry shivered. Lifting the skirt of his night gown, he waded into the waters. The sea roiled around him, grasping for him, attempting to drag him in.

Ginevra had refused to be dragged in.

As would he.

"Harry - please, love. Let's talk about this," Tom's voice travelled, easily ignored, as Harry searched the waters. He followed a trail of rocks, fondling moss-lined stone. He worried that the bones had been swept away by the storm. Fingers closed around Harry's elbow. "Harry," hot breath puffed against his neck. "You're  _unwell_."

Tom stared at him, blue eyes wide and scared - for  _him._

Briefly, Harry considered a break for it.

He could straddle the bike and retrace Tom's path into town, convince Missus Flume to let him borrow her car. Or steal it. The wrath of Missus Flume and her daughters seemed minimal in comparison to Tom's dominating hand on his spine. Harry doubted he would make it very far before collapsing, anyways. Tom's hand slipped his wrist, fingernail scratching possessively against the wedding ring. "Harry, come back inside with me," he spoke lowly, as if gentling a skittish colt. "You're not  _well."_

With a desperate sort of laugh, Harry tried to pull away. He tripped deeper into the sea, the water now reaching his knees.

His ring slipped off, Tom palming it with a mournful expression. He began to approach, water parting beneath him like Moses, eyes glinting in the darkness. "This is how it's going to end, then? You needn't die today, my love, just come home with me."

"T - Tom," Harry stumbled back, fearful.

Tom caught him, pulling Harry flush to his chest, the cool sting of a blade pressed beneath Harry's ribs. "Oh, darling," Tom sighed softly, his breath a warm, light breeze. "How I loved you so. You understand, don't you?"

"Understand?" Harry spat. "Of course I do. I'm just another toy to you, aren't I, played with until my threads fray and my body collapses? I can't live like that. Knowing that I'm just going to be replaced, like Ginevra was."

The older man frowned, fingers pressing into Harry's back. "Does God see his creations as toys? Did he see Eve as a replacement of Adam? No, he found them  _beautiful together,_ mortality and all. Isn't it best that you die by my hands, rather than that of something out of my control? Do you see? How  _beautiful_ this is? How beautiful you are?"

 _God drowned his creations_ , Harry realized, just as Tom struck, the kitchen knife gutting him like a  _fish,_ piercing his stomach with a final penetration. Blood blossoming like a rose through his nightshirt, Harry was gently laid into the water.

Tom cushioned Harry's head with his palm; pale lips smiling sadly. The sky twinkled above, lacking in luminescence compared to Tom's ocean eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you. Neither of you." His words echoed, rattling around Harry's blurred, senseless mind. 

"Ginny didn't understand me like you did. She was stubborn, unbreakable, and it seemed the only way to qualm her was through drugs. I  _am_ a doctor. They were rather easy to procure. But . . . she began to distrust me, suspect me, and snuck out one night only to be swept up in the waves. I didn't mean for her to die, and - and, I swore that if I ever loved again, I wouldn't let them die by anything other than my hand."

"We were doomed from the start," Harry croaked weakly. "Was I ever really ill? Or . . . could you only love me when I was utterly dependent?"

Tom smiled resignedly at his boy. "Love is a sort of sickness, isn't it?"

Harry closed his eyes. 

Was this how Ginny had died, laid to rest and rot in the calm ocean waves? Poisoned, bled out, and drowned like a damsel in some Shakespearean tragedy? Would Tom's next lover be dispatched in the same way? Harry didn't want to remember him like this. He sucked in a deep breath, smelling Tom and the sea.

"K - kiss me, Tom."

His voice was faint, but Tom heard every word. The man relented, indulgent, like he had been so many times before. Harry's body calmed, comforted by the familiar pressure of lips against his. Tom licked his silver tears away.

Staring up at the Beast, unchanged by true love's kiss, Harry fell into an endless sleep.

Tom, fingers dripping with salt water, gently closed his eyelids. Wiping his hands, removing the knife from Harry's chest, Tom stood, and let the body be swept away. With a pang, he remembered that he never got to give Ginevra a final farewell. He'd have to find her bones - Harry said that they had swept up to shore. Perhaps, with her teeth, he could rebuild his chimes. And one day - years from now, when the waves returned him home - Tom would have something to remember Harry by as well. 

" _Harry_ ," he breathed. "Of all that I have loved, will love," Tom said to the sea. "I think that I will miss you the most." 

The sea said nothing back.

* * *

_**All was not well.**_

* * *

 

_**** _

This beautiful art, entitled **Red Poppy, Death & Remembrance, **is courtesy of the amazing [linoleum-anemos](http://limonium-anemos.tumblr.com). Thank you so much!


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